22 December 2004

I have been asked endless variations on this question since announcing my engagement Sunday evening. While I can no longer accurately and honestly respond with my original answer, the spirit of the response is the same.

My original answer, by the way, was, "All of my underwear is still in a box in a U-Haul. Give me a minute, here."

03 December 2004

The highlight of our mornings here at Columbia University Press is an institution known as "the coffee truck" (the alternate name for which is, as Joel informs me, the roach coach.) Every morning at approximately 10:30 the coffee truck arrives and honks. Word goes 'round the office, passing from those who are close enough to windows at the parking-lot end of the building to actually hear the truck honking, through the finance department, down on through the indexers cluster by cluster: "Coffee truck.....coffee truck's here.....coffee truck....praise God..." There is a mad scrambling for coats and change-purses, and we begin our daily pilgrimage to that holiest of shrines, the coffee truck.

The coffee truck is a beautiful sight. Its shiny chrome sides gleam in the midmorning light, and some half-dozen spigots protrude from the back of the truck, dispensing coffee, hot water, decaf, coffee, coffee, and more coffee. Cradled in a trough are cartons of milk and Tupperware containers of sugar. On one side of the truck are various tasty comestibles--sandwiches, doughnuts, muffins, and of course cheese Danish. Occasionally there are also yoghurts of varying exotic fruits. Though this concept takes the phrase "highway robbery" to a new height of linguistic irony, and the caloric consequences are sometimes devastating, the coffee truck is indeed one of man's finest inventions, second only to bottled beer.

Which brings me to my point. This morning, there was talk among a certain group of indexers that there should be an afternoon counterpart to the coffee truck. (This flight into fantasy has no doubt occurred because it is currently 10:57 and so far the coffee truck has not made its appearance.) Sometime around 3:00 or 3:15 each afternoon, the afternoon counterpart should make its appearance. It will be called "The Beer Truck."

Ideally, the beer truck would have taps along its back bumper, offering a variety of domestic, import, and microbrew selections. Around the side you'd have your mixed nuts, trail mix, hot wings, cocktail offerings, olives, finger sandwiches, and scoop-your-own popcorn. One of the guys from the warehouse on the first floor has even suggested tiki torches, because by 3:30 in the winter, it's already pretty damn dark and you don't want to spill your drink (except maybe on that jerk from marketing). It was MK who came up with the coup de grace: Friday afternoon travelling beer truck treks.

On Friday afternoons, instead of parking, the beer truck would honk and make a U-turn. Employees could then log off, pack their briefcases, fetch their car keys, and join a caravan, a sort of vehicular conga line, to the destination of the week. We would follow the beer truck hither and yon, through the hills of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to wherever the beer truck led us. Whenever and wherever the beer truck parked, the party would begin.

01 December 2004

The fact that it's December hasn't occurred to me. November has been so endless that it cannot possibly be near the end of the first week of Advent. Of course, the fact that I'm living with a Jew (though only sort of, on both counts) at the moment might have something to do with it. That and my complete lack of home. Christmas=home, it always has. This year, homeless, I feel robbed of Christmas, even though Louise builds on to her Christmas village every day at the office, and bakes enough cookies to throttle us all several times over. Even though there are lights all the way down Oscawana Lake Road to the Heights, even though I'm far enough north for snow any night.

And more and more each morning, I realize I miss my boyfriend. This morning I just wanted to hold him, to wrap myself up in his warm scent and strong shoulders, even though he clamps his leg too tight over my hip when he's sleeping sometimes, not realizing of course that he could crush me if he wasn't careful.EdTool was working fine when I came in this morning; now it's being a bastard. It's been 11:30 since about quarter after nine. Which would be fine if I didn't have to work through lunch so I can drive 95 miles to teach tonight. These next few Wednesdays are going to suck....though not as much as the next few Thursday mornings....I'm a little insulted that Eva called to ask if we were serious about renting the house. I wanted to say, "If you had drawn up a lease, we'd have signed it already." I told her I wanted to move in as soon as the paint was dry. I mean, good god. I'm sleeping on Robin's couch. (well, he's sleeping on his couch, I'm sleeping in the bed, because that's the way Robin is) I have given up the lease on an apartment I loved, I have bought a new car, I have moved an additional 120 miles away from my partner. I am waiting for you, Eva. I have tried to be perfectly clear that we are serious, and that we were trying not to push you, but that we are anxious to move in and get on with it. Jesus. I am nearing wit's end on how to make myself clear and make this happen. I am getting to the point again where I need answers, because this amount of uncertainty is not healthy for me.

Neither is what I'm about to say to EdTool, white-screening me again for the nth time this morning. This hour.Grrrrrr.

What a Fire Cat Is

What I Need to Remember

Never ask "What next, Lord?" The last time I said that, I got called for jury duty and the elastic on my underpants quit.

Who Owns the Content

All text, unless otherwise specified, is mine.

Some photos are copyright Romano Film & Photography. I have permission. I also happen to have copies of the legal agreements and permissions of all RF&P images so I know whether or not you have permission. Rest assured the estate will kick your ass if you use them without permission, and I will happily lead the charge. In short, don't fuck with a dead guy's best friend. Okay? Cool.